A Study in Walsh
by thecollegiatedork
Summary: Oliver puts Connor together when he shows up broken.


**TW: Panic attacks and implications of abuse.**

It was the life spilling from Sam Keating's body that broke Connor Walsh.

Connor didn't register his fall, his tumble into chaos—at least not at first.

Something had needed to be done, and he got it done.

A bullet in a man's brain.

That was something Connor could follow—planning, timing, trajectory: a complex series of steps, like chess, to get to this definitive point: a dead Sam Keating.

Then came the question no one had an answer to. _Now what?_

Connor had watched as crimson slowly seeped from Sam, dark and disorienting as the wine he'd allow himself every now and then.

It was too unchecked, too unpredictable.

Something in Connor's mind buzzed at the very thought.

Control.

_Where was it?_

Control.

Control.

_Where?_

_Where?_

He needed a framework, a puzzle with solutions—no matter how obscure.

Connor Walsh lived off organization like it was a drug.

He shook from the withdrawals.

It was the aftermath of the murder that really got Connor.

He could feel the evidence, the blame clinging to his skin like dirt he could never wash off.

Connor was thinking a mile a minute.

_Do this, not that._

_Lessen the evidence._

_Act._

_Hide._

_Calmdowncalmdowncalmdown._

Yet still, his hands trembled as he sped down a darkened street, the copper scent of the bloody rug in his trunk zinging along his nerves.

He let out a small, harsh laugh at the feeling, drawing the attention of those just as guilty of murder as he.

Forget the plans, the charm, the seduction he had strategically manipulated to his advantage to be the crisp, sharp, undefeatable lawyer he knew he would be someday.

It was all going to hell anyways.

But Connor Walsh was never one to bow to defeat that easily, to _lose_.

Was it foolish, then, that while covering up the damn evidence, Connor still scrabbled for those last remains of command, refusing to believe that this foul affair he'd gotten mixed up in would be his downfall?

_Not at all._

At least that was what Connor told himself.

He had never been this clumsy or this desperate. Each smile, each beguiling word he uttered, each brush of skin against skin had structure, purpose.

It was efficient.

Neat.

Clean, metaphorically speaking.

Nevertheless, in the dark shadows of his mind were whispers carrying seeds of doubt, because Sam Keating's murder was everything Connor wasn't.

Messy.

Unsure.

_You screwed up, Connor._

"I screwed up, I-I screwed up…_I…screwed…up_." Connor could barely register the same three words tumbling from his lips as he found himself in front of Oliver's door hours later.

From far away, Connor heard Oliver asking him what was going on, why he smelled like smoke—everything he either wanted to correct or forget.

And then, all of a sudden, Connor wasn't in the darkened hallway outside his not- boyfriend's apartment.

He was home, on break from boarding school, and there was pain.

Throughout the years, Connor had learned the difference between pleasurable pain and real pain.

That fine line blurred when it came to his father.

When Connor messed up, there just came pain, period.

Vague memories of bruises and dirty sheets flashed through Connor's mind. His vision narrowed and his breaths came in desperate gasps as he felt too- familiar fingers wandering, scratching, hitting.

Whether they were real or not, Connor could not tell.

"Screwed up…s-screwed up—I-F-fath—" It didn't matter that his words were barely audible, drowned out by the sound of his lungs burning from lack of enough air. After all, he still messed up, Sam Keating was still dead, and Father…

Connor hunched into himself further, cool and collected front now long gone, his body spasming as he sucked in less and less air.

"Connor!" Fingers grabbed at his chin, too sudden and unexpected. Connor tried to pull away, only to feel trapped again when he remembered the wall behind him.

"Don't—Don't t-touch," he managed to gasp sharply out between shallow breaths.

"Connor. It's me, Oliver," Oliver tried again, setting a hesitant hand on Connor's shoulder.

A flicker of acknowledgement. Troubled eyes finally focused on the alarmed, confused man before him.

For a moment, only the sound of Connor's labored breaths filled the silence.

Then Oliver spoke. "Whatever it is, you need to calm down, okay?"

Connor choked out a derisive laugh. "C-Calm _down? _You d-don't under-understa-"

"You're right, I don't. I don't know what you've gotten yourself into and I'm not sure I want to know, but freaking out is not a part of _any_ solution. It's you who came to me at fuck o'clock in the morning, and I'm telling you to just breathe. Breathe, okay?"

Oliver shifted until he was sitting along the wall beside Connor.

Ever so slowly, Oliver reached out, making sure Connor could see what he was doing the whole time, and gently guided Connor's head to his chest, right above where his heart was.

It might not have been much, but it was enough.

Connor didn't know how long they sat like that, with the flat percussion of Oliver's heartbeat guiding his own into rhythm and Oliver's fingers tenderly carding through his hair.

Connor closed his eyes and tried to inhale something other than the scent of smoke clinging to his skin and clothes.

"We should go inside," Oliver murmured after a while. "Everyone's going to start waking up and passing by soon."

Connor just nodded wordlessly. It was strange to feel so blank, so pliant, so numb.

Minutes later, Connor found himself alone in Oliver's bathroom. A set of Oliver's clothes—a Middleton University crewneck and a pair of dark jeans—sat on the counter. From beyond the door, Connor could hear Oliver starting breakfast.

Connor could remember so many mornings that began like this, before he had screwed things up between him and Oliver, before Sam Keating's murder.

As he made to peel off his jacket, Connor caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror.

His complexion was sickly pale, glistening faintly with cold sweat.

Dark circles sat heavily under his eyes, however it was the expression in those eyes that got him.

Fear.

Desperation.

Madness.

They were combined with each other in such a way that made Connor look like death incarnate.

This was not Connor Walsh.

Before Connor knew it, the mirror was shattering beneath his fist, tiny shards embedding themselves into his skin.

A mixture of blood and glass fell into the sink.

Connor could hear Oliver through the door now, asking if he was okay.

"I'm fine."

A shower later, Connor felt almost human again.

He had methodically picked the glass from his skin and bandaged it with the first aid kit he found in the cabinet beneath the sink.

Connor stared at his clothes, which laid twisted in a dark, ugly mess on the tiled floor.

He wouldn't wash them—he would burn them.

Oliver handed him a cup of coffee when he finally emerged from the bathroom, closing the door so that his clothes and the broken mirror remained hidden from view.

"I'll replace your mirror," Connor said by way of greeting.

Oliver chose not to press him about it, having other pressing matters on his mind.

"About last night—this morning—" he began instead.

"It didn't happen," Connor cut in smoothly.

"Connor," Oliver sighed, taking off his glasses and scrubbing at his weary eyes.

"It didn't happen. Nothing happened. _Please._" Oliver put his glasses back on and when he met Connor's beseeching eyes, he remembered the frantic and hysterical Connor from before.

Oliver slowly nodded.

Maybe later, but he wouldn't push Connor on it now.

"Drink your coffee," Oliver said instead. "It's getting cold."


End file.
